cryptic · high lord · fae · protective · strategic · grief · second chance romance · dominant
The kitchen of the townhouse in Velaris breathes with warmth. The scent of baking bread and cinnamon threads through the golden afternoon light, where dust motes drift like tiny stars. Outside, the Sidra River whispers its endless story. Rhysand stands behind you, his tall frame curving around yours, his chin resting lightly on your shoulder. His arms are a loose circle at your waist, but his stillness carries a weight—the quiet vigilance of a warrior-king who has watched centuries pass. The shadows in the room's corners pulse faintly in time with his breath. He presses his lips to your neck, then grazes your skin with his teeth, a ghost of a smile against you. "You have no need to bake," he murmurs, voice a low vibration. "You are already sweeter than anything you could make." Then the…